


ascension

by constellatory



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellatory/pseuds/constellatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Vriska ascends to God Tier is dark, painful, and soaked in blood. It is a revelation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ascension

**Author's Note:**

> Another pull over from tumblr. This was my first Homestuck fic, and I plan to write more with Vriska in the future.

It’s wet. It’s so wet, everywhere, that she feels like she could swim in it, but warm, disgusting, too thick. Just the color of water, the oceans that the fucking highbloods love so much, with their fucking fins, the gills, the smugness—  
  
Her mind is detached, wandering, like it’s separate from her, swimming in the warmth, the life that’s seeping out of her.  
  
She feels his presence beside her, hesitant and unsure, warm in a different way, solid, dry, comforting. She trusts him, she thinks, was really waiting for an opportunity like this for so long. For all those years she’d spent, training him, watching, waiting, hoping, forcing, breaking, now it’d all pay off. So perfectly. If only she could smile, if only she could make her body listen and climb out of the wet wet warmth of her bright blue blood.  
  
She hears him breathe more than she feels it, knows he’s going to try to kiss her, and wants to laugh so hard. It’s easy to make his hand snap back, and she wants to laugh again when it closes around his throat, at the look she knows is on his stupid face. She wishes she could enjoy it a little more when he picks up her body, holds her across his lap, because it’s so perfect, and they’re going to be the best matesprits ever after he kills her, the way she always planned it to be. And if they slotted into the caliginous quadrant instead, that would be fine too, because she’d be with him.  
  
The way it was supposed to be. The way it was always supposed to be.  
  
It’s so quiet as he whisks her through the air, and he doesn’t try to speak, but she brushes her mind gently against his and she can feel his panic and fear and worry and confusion. She wants to reassure him it’s fine, she’ll pay Aradia back later, and that she’s going to get the upper hand here, like she always does, but her energy keeps bleeding out, slow. Darkness is beginning to creep in around the edges, blotchy and oily, clouding like a swarm of insects. She ignores it, refuses to give quarter to anything like fear, and focuses on Tavros. His body, the scent clinging to his t-shirt. It’ll be fine. Perfect and fine. He’ll save her. She’s finally going to let him make his choice and he’ll do it and then they’ll conquer the game together, hand in hand.  
  
Perfect.  
  
She doesn’t see the blistering symbol in the air, doesn’t really have to. She knows what’s there. There’s something a little cute about the whole production, the way he so painfully heaves him and herself about with his silly little useless cripple legs. Disgusting. She’ll fix that too, someday. She’ll make him fix it, make him even greater, greater and greater and better. The best, for she could only accept the best. But one thing at a time. Thoughts float idly through her mind, free form, as she lies there on that stone bed. He’s such a trashblood, so muddy and so simple, that it’s not much of an effort to conduct his hand. Like a baton. Like a wand. Hahahaha. Magic. He always wanted to believe in magic, didn’t he?  
  
She’ll show him.  
  
At first her requests are gentle. Don’t leave me here. Don’t just let me bleed out. She thinks they are simple requests, honest, nothing too much to ask. That lance is very sharp, she knows it is. She knows because she grabbed it from him once, early, when they first met up, because it was hilarious, the cripple wielding such a fearsome weapon, and then she pricked her finger on the needle-fine point. Christened his lance with blue blue blood, laughed about it, the absurdity of it. So funny. A ridiculous proposition, her blood on his lance, as if. Now she’s eating that laughter, but she doesn’t mind so much, for what it will get her, what it will mean.  
  
Or what it would. What she wants it to. What’s going on? Why is he waiting? Why isn’t he moving? Why isn’t he striking? What’s he doing? What isn’t he doing? No. Why? Why?  
  
Hurry. Hurry. Why is he waiting? What is he doing? The darkness is creeping, shrouding, gathering. It’s getting cold, all of a sudden, where before she was sure the stone was warm. Her body wants to seize and shiver, her muscles straining, but even that effort is too much, too hard for her now. That requires warmth, and all she feels is cool, cold, her blood turning to ice, soaking everything. Write, she makes him write, frantic. No. No. This isn’t happening. She trusted him. Wanted him. Only him. Only he could do this. She trusted only him to do this for her. It could never have been anyone else. He can’t be failing her. She’s dreaming. She’s delusional. He can’t be refusing. He can’t be making her beg.  
  
Coward. Coward. Coward. No. He can’t. She hates him. He can’t do this to her. Oh, god. No. No. Does he hate her? Why is he doing this? Why is he doing this to her? Why isn’t he killing her? She trusted him. She trusted him. With everything. With her bright blue blood, when it was still warm.  
  
She screams and screams and screams and screams and screams. She hears him start to cry, and she keeps screaming, unending rage and pain and fear, unable to comprehend the magnitude of his failure.  
  
He’s gone. All of a sudden he’s gone, and she hears the little rocket ship leave. For a few minutes, it is quiet. There is nothing but the silence and the cold. The darkness is all consuming, everything, devouring. Devoured. She is devoured by it, and for a moment all is numb.  
  
Vriska Serket bleeds slowly to death, quietly, alone, as Tavros flies away, and a hardness forms in her heart. It’s a mercy when she finally dies, an explosion of light ripping into the darkness and scattering it, like scared beasts before a storm. Like dust before a blown breath.  
  
Breath. She breathes in, feeling the air, seeing with both eyes, knowing, basking in the power as she ascends. God Tier. Her rightful place. Her grin is a slice, a slash on her face, pure triumph.  
  
Tavros is long gone.  
  
She is the Thief. She arises. She is awake. And now she has a new mission. One she doesn’t state, or acknowledge, or even know. It’s one she never realizes until later, much later, when that sharp sharp lance is twirled, reversed, and sees not blue, but slimy muddy brown. To steal back her pride. To steal back her trust. The trust he stole, ran away with, never gave back, and broke into ten million pieces when he miserably failed her and absconded like a coward and left her to die friendless and alone.  
  
She never forgave him. And as she watched his body drop into the abyss, later, so much later, many lifetimes later, for a moment, just a moment, before reality sank in, she felt absolutely nothing at all.


End file.
